Detoxing from Dreams
by MakLeon
Summary: The story of pre-, while- and post-74th -75th Hunger Games events as seen through the eyes of a District 12 orphan girl who grows up going to school with the future star-crossed lovers, and gradually comes to play her small role in their mentor's life. "He is just one of the few men in our district who have never tried to hurt or date me."
1. Chapter 1 The Star

- 1-

I have often been told I was born under a lucky star if such a star has ever shone upon our District 12, or any other districts. It seems that stars and the sun alike choose to send their rays straight to Capitol. Either that, or they just cannot break through all this coal dust from the Seam. Well, if this one tiny baby-star did, for some reason, it picked me out of all the kids.

Much more deserving kids, as my uncle Rote would say. Much lovelier ones, as my aunt Nola would sign. Much smarter as well, as some of my former classmates would probably smirk. And I would just smile back brightly and say, "Yeah, sure, but so what?" - as if I do not care at all - that's what I usually do. The best response against any offence is to agree that your offender might be completely justified, only you don't give a damn about them. It works so nicely I have even managed to persuade myself that what others say does not really matter. Most of the others... There is an exception for every rule.

My lucky star must have been shining particularly brightly during the whole bleak snowy week of Christmas 64 ADD when both of my parents died one after another from the pox epidemic that took over almost one sixth of the district. I was five and a half then, and did not get infected only by some miracle. There are no photos, and I do not remember their faces clearly anymore. Only a faded image of a small bird-like woman who always danced and sang as she cleaned the house or cooked dinner. She had soft light brown hair and warm breath smelling of something sweet like marmalade... I tried marmalade only once at Madge Undersee's birthday party and for many years after, I believed it was the best treat ever.

My aunt Nola says I do not look much alike to either of my parents. As a teen, it made me strangely sad. I used to spend quite a while in front of the mirror. My elder cousins Grita and Rote mocked me, my aunt shooed me away, but I was only desperately trying to find a trace of my parents in my own face until my eyes watered. I even had my small ritual. Every Christmas when my relatives went to bed after a somewhat luxurious dinner of a roasted turkey or sometimes even a lamb, I climbed into the big closet in the living room. The closet had a mirror inside. Its surface was dimly shimmering in the light of my flashlight. I put on my aunt's lipstick and brushed my hair to one side. I smiled, and tossed my head, and moved my shoulders in a way I saw the Capitol TV singers do. I pretended to be my mother singing and dancing in her small kitchen.

The habit is still there. Up till today, I sometimes dance in front of the mirror in the bedroom or bathroom when no one is there to see me. I like to think of that not as a vanity, but as connection across the time and space. The only connection between me and the memory of the little woman who - they say - was as brave or, perhaps, as stupid as not to leave her husband's side once he got sick. Even though it was obvious from the very start that he had no chance of surviving. Almost no one of the first victims of the epidemic did. And it took quite a while for the Capitol to send us some vaccine. My mother brought me to my aunt's house and came back immediately to stay with my father. Till the end. Her own end.

The Peacekeepers were ordered to burn the bodies of the deceased to avoid spreading the infection. That was probably cheaper than disinfecting everyone and everything around after the burial. Most of the things from our house were burnt too. That is why I have no photos of my parents.

I started it all wrong. This is my story, true, but it is not about me at all. Yet, where do I begin? How can I tell about the person who seemed to be always there as long as I can remember. A part and parcel of District 12. Like a never descending coal dust cloud over the Seam. Like the gloomy shed of mine holes in the dark-grey stony earth. Our symbol. Our shameful pride. Our very own. The only victor alive, and probably the only one we are ever going to have, or so we all thought until the second-to-last Hunger Games.

I have seen him quite a few times on the weekends heading off to the Hob where they sell those ever scarce drinks, and then back to his huge house in that empty village. Bottles clinking in his bag. Stumbling slow steps. Wrinkled clothes and expressionless face. How old is he or rather how young?

When my aunt Nola mentions once that him and my uncle Rote are the same age, I gape at her in disbelief. For some reason, he seems to me like something eternal, someone out of time and space. I cannot imagine he might have once been a youngster on those old black and white photos my uncle has back from his school years. They were classmates. Like me, Delly, Peeta, and Katniss.

"How did it feel having a future victor as your classmate, dad?" asks Rote once, and my uncle snorts.

"It's been quite a while. Haymitch was a loner. Didn't think much of our kin even then, I'd guess."

"Is it true he killed his girlfriend and dig the body in the Meadow at midnight?" chimes in Grita a bit tremulously. "That's what people say."

"No way," answers my uncle. "All this woman talk. He is sure a weirdo, but he ain't no one's girlfriend murderer."

"But even my teacher says..." persists Grita.

"Girls were sure fond of him though in those days after he came back a victor,"my uncle remarks. "Even your mum took a fancy."

"Rote..." my aunt hastily interrupts and blushes ever so slightly as my uncle grins.

"Ain't I saying the truth? You swooning over him till the day of our wedding. Just like other morons. Dreamed of becoming a mistress of a large house, huh? Ended up in mine instead."

I don't ask any questions. First, because my uncle would never trouble himself with talking to me. It is already enough that he has to pay for my food and clothing, as my aunt Nola never gets tired to repeat. And then, I still do not believe that this tall dark man - this legend from the long-gone past - could ever lead a real normal life. The kind of life my cousin Rote now has. All this laughing, and story-telling, and girls. The kind of life me, Delly, and Peeta have. Dull lessons and a lot of homework, and sleeping at the back of the classroom, and running away to the Meadow, and getting punished for this.

He goes to the Hob at dusk, never in the mornings. He leaves when the sun is going down and colors the dusty air in faint pink. His long shadow stretching far ahead of him. The darkness is closing all around him as he ascents the hill leading to the Victors' Village.

People do talk. In a small place like ours where everyone knows everyone else and nothing ever happens except the yearly deadly reapings, occasional epidemics or mine accidents what's left but to talk over and over again about someone who has once made District 12 famous. Some are sympathetically clinging their tongues: "One day this fellow is going to drink himself dead, and no one will ever notice till the next Hunger Games come." Some - and these are usually the relatives of the dead tributes - are bitter: "Such a nice house he has. What a shame! What a waste of money! What did he do to deserve all of this? Watching our kids die and not doing anything."

And then there are all kinds of rumors. The dead girlfriend whose spirit haunts late-night walkers in the Meadow is the most popular of many others. Even when my uncle Rote grudgingly says that this is a tale made up to scare young lovers from lingering in the Meadow after dark, Grita and other kids are still terrified and avoid the place in the evenings. The haunted Victors' Village is another well-known story that the merchant kids like to tell hurdling together somewhere in the dark corner of the square, in a safe proximity to the shining windows of their parents' shops.

The sky is pitch black. The stars are pale and already fading when someone begins in a deep whisper: "... And there was that big dark house on the top of the dark hill. No one has ever come close by to the place. No one but Haymitch..."

I am sitting there as well. Listening to the speakers interchanging one another. Never interfering and never taking on the line. Inside my head there is another story in which the lonely man beats off the demons and ghosts instead of pairing up with them to scare the neighbourhood children. Deep in my heart I know that although my tale is all cooked-up, it is still more true than what the others say. One does not have to believe that something is true. One has to feel it from within.

That's how I know this...

- 2 -

I am nine or ten years old. One summer evening I am running past the Hob back to the merchant section. I have been wandering around as usual searching for a discreet place to practice a new dance from the Capitol Saturday night show without anyone overlooking and booing me. Now I am late for dinner. My aunt Nola will be so angry, and my uncle Rote simply hates non-punctual people. As a merchant, he knows the price of everything including people. Absent-minded irresponsible youngsters like myself are certainly worth less than pig's entrails which means not worth feeding. That's what he says.

I am very hungry. Today is Sunday, everyone cooks something tasty for their evening meal, and Peeta's mother is in her bakery all day long. She does not take an afternoon break; therefore, no way of asking him for a tiny-itty-bitty piece.

As the road winds on the steep slope, I run faster and faster watching only my feet so as not to triple over some big stone. If I fall and mess my dress in the mud, that certainly will not increase my chances of getting dinner. I do not even look ahead. No one ever goes this way except some random adventure-seeking kids. At the full speed, I reach the end of the slope and head on to the main street where the shops start. I circle around the fence and then... boom...

I bang my head on someone's chest. Tinkling of the broken glass. Pungent smell of liquor. I do know this smell since my uncle drinks a glass now and then on holidays. Someone is swearing under-breath, as this someone's hand grabs my shoulder and almost lifts me off the ground I am sitting on. The collision was so strong, I fell on my behind probably bruising myself.

"Are you damned blind or on fire?" asks the man, and as I raise my eyes, I immediately recognize him. Haymitch Abernathy. Our ever drunk victor. The only owner of the haunted place. And this broken glass is all that is left of his liquor bottles. Of course, how could I have forgotten?! Weekend evenings! The drinks at the Hob...

I am so scared I cannot move or even make a sound. Once I broke a plate at home, and my aunt immediately tugged on my hair, while my uncle tried on me his leather belt. But these are my relatives. They are generally kind people. Didn't they agree to my living at their place? And that was only one plate... Here I stand in front of the victor of the Hunger Games who probably killed more people in one day than the flies that my aunt slaps down in our kitchen on a hot afternoon. What makes it even worse - judging by the sound and all this liquid spilling on the ground, I destroyed far more than one bottle.

I am so scared I cannot even see his face clearly. Besides, it is getting dark. So, I cannot really tell... is he very angry? He still holds on my shoulder. Is he going to slap me or ...?

I blurt the first thing that comes to my mind:

"Please, please, sir, don't! Don't kill me..."

He makes a strange sound like snorting or laughing, and all rumors wildly alive, I plead with him again:

"Please, I'll never ever again... only don't kill me like you killed your girlfriend!"

"What?" he breathes out sharply as if I again kicked him under the ribs.

All I can do is to put my hands over my head so that when he first hits me, it won't be in the face or ear. That's what I do with my uncle, and it usually works.

But instead, he suddenly lets go of me. For a moment, I watch his face now clearly visible in the pale blinking light of the streetlight that has just been turned on. There is something in his face that keeps me staring on even though the smartest thing I can probably do is to take my chances and run away... It is something very subtle... something I cannot name but that makes me gasp and say hastily:

"I am so sorry... I didn't mean..."

And sorry I am. I do not exactly understand why, but this does not go in any comparison with the "sorry" I usually mutter to my aunt's precious plates and tea cups.

Haymitch Abernathy does not even look at me. It is not anger or hurt, no... It is as if I am not there anymore. As if he has already forgotten I just bumped into him and smashed his liquor bottles. He slowly rearranges what's left of them in the bag, dugs in and throws away glass debris. His forefinger starts bleeding, and he wipes it off his pants quite absentmindedly. Then, he gets out a bottle and takes a big gulp. I see his Adam's apple twitching.

He goes away slightly staggering. I watch his back. His bent shoulders and sweaty shirt.

I think that was the day I first really see Haymitch Abernathy as a real person. Not just a symbol of the hateful Games or the main character of some scary stories. It was not only what I see in his eyes. It was also this incomprehensible unbelievable way he just left me there. Without even as much as telling me off. That shattered all my ideas about who is good and who is bad. Before that evening, I have always thought my uncle was a good decent man. Everyone from the merchants respected him. He had also taken me into his family although he did not have too - that's what my aunt always says. On the contrary, Haymitch was considered to be not exactly bad, but someone better not to be dealt with. Yet, my uncle would have sure beaten me black and blue if he were at Haymitch's place...

I have been avoiding passing by the Hob ever since. Not that I am afraid of Haymitch. It's just that I feel strangely guilty. I do not know why, so I decide it is because of the expensive bottles. Better not to try my luck. What if Haymitch decides to tell on me to my uncle if he sees me again?


	2. Chapter 2 I am Volunteered

- 1-

The day is cold and blizzardy. Everywhere I look I see red eyes and noses running. Slouched shoulders. Nothing but black and grey. The Seam color. The color of our winter. People shuffle on in the mud. It is the official mourning day. The funeral day. Even though what's there to bury? The bloody bits and pieces - the only thing left of those who died in the mine explosion. The most massive one for the past decade, or so they say.

My cousin Rote is not like me. His lucky star did not do a very good job. He was not even supposed to be in the mines on that day. He is not a regular worker. No, not him, hardly of age, the only son of one of the wealthiest merchants in the district. He came to the miners' supervisor to talk about coal delivery to our house. The standard fall-winter order. On the other hand, his star certainly managed better than the stars of Mr. Everdeen and other miners. Rote is alive although missing his upper left limb and a couple of fingers on his right hand.

I see Katniss far ahead of me next to her tiny fair sister and her slim mother who is now staring into nothingness and looks as if she is about to pass out at any moment. Both cling to Katniss, and my classmate seems like an autumn tree on the top of the hill trying to keep its last leaves from being shaken off by the angry wind.

I would have liked to claim that I have always admired Katniss, but in fact, my feelings are far more conflicting. To begin with, we have never been close. I am a kid from the merchant section, and naturally I am expected to hang out with Peeta, Delly and alike. My aunt is strangely peculiar about me and Grita playing with the Seam children. Not that I have much time for one or the other, anyway. With all the household work my aunt expects me to complete every day and the school homework on the top.

As a result, Katniss and me barely talk during class breaks, and after classes, she disappears swift as an arrow from her father's bow. Nearly everyone knows her father has one. Otherwise, where would the Seam have the cheap meat from? Yet, everyone keeps to themselves about Mr. Everdeen hunting. Katniss herself is not wordy.

Peeta seems to fancy her. His eyes become very gentle, and even his voice changes slightly as she briskly walks by. Sometimes Delly and me nudge one another and snort; sometimes we pretend we don't see what is going on with him. Whatever we do is wasted on Peeta as well as his sighs are clearly wasted on Katniss, which is a pity because I like Peeta. He is not as loud and nasty as other boys at school who keep pulling the ribbons off my hair or pinching me when the teacher is not looking in our direction.

I do not like Katniss that much. She is always on her own. She has no girl friends, and I would indeed like to see what happens to the boy who dares to pinch her! Yet, I often wish I could sing like her, or shout out the correct answer for the math problem or geography quiz instead of mumbling something incoherent in front of our frustrated teacher. Yes, I seem to be hopeless at all subjects except drawing. And even at this, Peeta is much better. I am only the second best. Anyway, it does not matter since drawing is an elective class, and my aunt Nola made me drop it and take on sewing and cooking classes instead. The only thing that makes me feel better about myself is dancing. Oh, of that I am sure, no one can dance like I do. Not just our district traditional dances but Capitol style as well? But then, who would care?

Again, I glance at Katniss, grim, tearless, bending against the wind, clutching at her thin coat collar. Suddenly I remember Mr. Everdeen. He could also sing so well that people were gathering in the pub just to listen to him on the weekend. He often came to pick up Katniss after school for a walk on Saturday afternoons. She always told us they were off to the Meadow, but I knew better. Once, a year or two ago, he showed up as I was sitting on the stone bench in the school yard feeling miserable. I tore my new school dress ( Grita's dress she had recently outgrown) by sitting on a nail. That meant no less than hearty beating from my aunt, and all weekend dusting off the store basement.

I remember Mr. Everdeen smiled at me and asked why I was so sad, and when I told him, he stroked my head and said some day he would ask my uncle to let me go for a walk with him and Katniss. Just like that. When it is sunny, and the birds are singing in the Meadow, that's what he said. Of course, this never happened. Either my uncle did not like the idea, or Mr. Everdeen simply forgot to ask. I never found out, and it did not even dawn on me to ask Katniss. Still, it was nice of him to suggest this. I remember his smile and wrinkles in the corners of his gray eyes - Seam eyes - Katniss's eyes. I suddenly want to cry so badly, and the only way to hold back my tears is to murmur some funny song, ever so quietly. The only song that comes to my mind right now is the Harvest Festival chanting, but it's better than nothing.

"What's the matter with you, girl? It's funerals, for damn sake!"

My uncle shakes me and slaps across the face in front of everyone. And that's when I notice Haymitch Abernathy. Standing aside from the others. Drunk as usual, if not even more than usual. His hair tossed and heavily plastered with snow. His eyes half-closed. A half-empty bottle in his hand. Whistling a popular melody they play at the weddings.

- 2 -

I last see my lucky star shining as brightly as never before in the midday-blue sky on the glaringly hot day of my first reaping.

That day... I wake up when it is still dark. Did I even sleep at all? It feels as if I have been forever sitting on my bed clutching the pillow and trembling so violently that I get cramps. My 18-year-old cousin Grita sleeps soundly next to me. She has nothing to be afraid of. She has never been reaped and will surely escape this time as well. Nobody ever discusses this openly in my uncle's house, but somehow I know how it happens. Certain kids' names do not get drawn from the bowl. For example, Madge. Or Grita. This will likely not be my case though.

By midday I am so shaky and cold that I have to put on Rote's sweater even though it is so hot and stuffy that the pavement on the square is about to melt. Grita sighs and rolls her eyes when she sees me coming. "Oh come on, you silly goose, unlike those Seam people, you did not even have to take any tesserae, did you? What's to be scared of?"

Rote does not say anything and pats me on the shoulder with what is left of his right hand.

I vomit twice. First time before the breakfast and another time after even though I have not been able to eat or drink anything. I am probably smelling not too nicely because once in the square next to my classmates, they move one after another until I am in the center of a tiny circle. I look up trying to see the stage in-between the shoulders of the elder girls. I have seen it many times from better locations but never before from the inside of the reaping square. It seems much more higher. And empty. Oh, so empty with those three chairs awaiting for the high guest from the Capitol, the Mayor and Haymitch.

Involuntarily I step back until my spine touches the rope, and one of the peacekeepers nudges me forward. I wince as he lightly pushes me and turn around. My uncle and my aunt stand not so far from me, and I try to catch their eye. If them or anyone else at least smiled at me, it would not be so bad. I would not feel so lonely in this big crowd of teens crowding together as a pack of geese on a market day. Neither my aunt nor my uncle seems to notice that I am almost next to their side. They are clasping each other's hands and strain to see Grita so intensely as if she were to be transported straight to the arena as soon as they blink or look away. I believe on this day of the year they become as close of a family as never before. Me excluded.

I cannot help but look at the stage, white and blazing in the blinding sunlight. The square is fully packed now. The Mayor starts on his usual speech that sounds like some meaningless droning to me. I feel nausea raising up, my throat tightens, and I desperately bite my lips not to puke right here in front of my classmates. It is so scorching hot that my lips are all dry and cracked. I want to drink almost as badly as I want to vomit. By the time the Mayor wraps up his speech and steps aside for Effie Trinket, the green-haired newcomer from the Capitol, I start hiccupping. The only thing that saves me from being laughed at is that my classmates seem to be in no better condition. Delly has scratched her palms raw, and both of her hands are bleeding. Katniss... she looks right in front of herself, tall, skinny and very straight. She has changed since the last year. No longer a devil-may-care tomboy running out of the school doors into her father's hands. No father. That with her tesserae. She is worse off than me. Yet, even the sight of Katniss does not bring me any courage.

And then something incredible happens.

"Grita Rosany!" exclaims Ms. Trinket, and not so far behind me someone shrieks back. This high-pitched wail is so much unlike my aunt Nola's usual businesslike patter that I do not recognize her at once.

My cousin steps out. Although she is thrice my size and almost twice my height, she seems so small now. Like a lost child. Once on the stage, she lowers her head so that only her smooth hair parting is seen. I think she must be crying now and does not want the screens to show this.

I am not brave. Nothing like Katniss. Unlike her four years later, I do not volunteer to be a tribute. No one in the class runs slower than me. No one is more afraid of blood. I panicked and wailed at the sight of the needle when registering for my reaping. I cannot even think of myself in the arena. All I have is my dancing. Perhaps, if I dance at the tributes' final interview, it might somehow prick the sponsors. But once in the arena, I would probably just fall covering my head and get killed at the very first moment... The very idea of this makes me sick yet again. Yes, I could have never been able to volunteer, and I did not. Instead, I AM volunteered...


	3. Chapter 3 Sticks and Stones

- 1-

Everything happens so dizzyingly quickly. Even though later in my rare dreams it will always be slow motion-like.

Somehow my uncle manages to squeeze in between the two Peacekeepers and steps right behind me. I wonder why they do not stop him? Is it because surprisingly he does not make any attempt to rush upfront to the stage? Is it possible for them to sympathize with him because he is a well-known and respected man in the district?

At first I just gape at my uncle as he - has he gone mad? - hugs me. My aunt probably has the same opinion if she is at all able to think about and notice anything but her gasping and sobbing daughter.

And then I feel my uncle raising me up - higher and higher into the air - and I look at him blankly, I have no idea what is going on but my instinct of a wild animal in a trap tells me something is terribly wrong - I try to wriggle out but he holds me so tight that I can barely breath.

"There is a volunteer! She is right here!"

It is my uncle's somewhat shaky but still loud voice. As people start to turn around, he whispers coarsely and urgently.

"Say yes, Lia, my dear darling girl, say you volunteer... I'll damn strangle you, stupid cow... you know I will."

I want to shout out "No!" but the pain in my ribs, heat, and fear he might strangle me right here and now make my head swim, and I squeal.

"Yes, I vo..volunteer.."

It is ever so faint "yes" but it somehow sounds very loud. My uncle's grasp upon me immediately weakens, and I am left standing alone in the widening circle of my peers.

The green-haired Capitol girl flutters her long eyelashes and starts searching for something in her tiny handbag. I have never seen her before, so this must be her first year in our district.

"But this is against the rules", the Mayor exclaims somewhat unsure, probably because my uncle has been his nearest supporter, as well as a good friend all these years, and my uncle bellows back:

"She said "yes", didn't she? So, what more do you need?"

Everyone suddenly falls silent, as my uncle shouts - almost screams - desperately.

"What difference does it make who is to be reaped after all? Are you all humans, or what? This is a family matter, right? Ain't family members allowed to step in for one another?"

Suddenly Haymitch Abernathy laughs from his chair and claps on his knee. I look at him in ever growing panic. But all he says is.

"Well, Rote, why don't you just get someone's baby out of the crib? Will be much simpler. Babies say neither "yes" or "no".

This apparently solves the problem. The Mayor chimes in avoiding to look at my uncle and Grita. Ms. Trinket hastily retrieves and looks through her booklet and after what seems to me like eternity, titters something about a volunteer who is supposed to make his or her choice without any outside interference. People whisper and grunt grudgingly, and then again get very quiet as the girl names a boy tribute.

I stand very still. Looking straight at the stage. At my pale cousin stumbling to shake hands with the boy whose face seems vaguely familiar. At Ms. Trinket's green ringlets. At Haymitch scowling at her. I stand still feeling my classmates' eyes on me, with my ribs bruised, and something warm trickling down my leg. That's when I am so happy I put on my cousin's old sweater that is right at my knee level.

- 2 -

My cousin Grita is killed on the second day of the Hunger Games. Hit in the head while drinking from the pool she has just found after two days of wandering in what looks like some dunes. Her mate outlives her by two more days. Dies of a snakebite. As I watch them both dying, I cannot help but imagining myself right there. I might have as well been.

On the day of Grita's death, I run away and wander in the Meadow till the night is closing in. I know it is bad of me. I should be mourning my cousin. Instead, I feel such a strong joy. I feel so alive with a whole year between today and the next reaping that I start dancing right there, in the Meadow, and warm summer rain shimmers all around me.

- 3 -

Haymitch Abernathy steps off the train two weeks later. By that time my uncle has already run out of his storage of swearing words while my aunt has exhausted her tears. My uncle fell out with the Mayor, and beat one of our neighbors who mentioned that they still have their son and me. He would have beaten me too, only I tried not to be around. The neighbors seem to be sorry for me after what happened at the reaping. They feed me bits and pieces of their dinner left-overs. I spend first couple of nights at Peeta's place. He lets me in late in the evening and then out in the early morning through the small window in his room. His elder brother who shares the room with us keeps silence that is worth a few coins per night. Then Peeta runs out of his meager savings, and his brother turns me in to their not so welcoming mother.

I stay at Delly's until my aunt drops by and claims me back on the evening of the same day that Haymitch Abernathy is back at the Victors', or in our case, the One Victor's Village again.

My aunt's eyelids are heavy and red. Her step is slow and shuffling. It is as if she has grown ten years older during those days I have not seen her. We do not speak on our way home. She almost pushes me inside since I linger on the steps unwilling to ever see my uncle again.

I think now that the very sight of me was the last straw. The girl whose presence in his house has been a nuisance from the start. The girl who has always been a weakling, and surely should have died either from the epidemic, or malnutrition. And yet she looks quite healthy and undamaged while his only son became a cripple... while his lovely blond daughter was left in the puddle of her own blood - and he had to watch a guy getting close to her, hitting her with a stone - he could not even shout a warning!.. while

Probably the only other person my uncle hates more than me is Haymitch Abernathy who apparently has not dried out since the day of the reaping. All the week long my uncle Rote curses and spits in the fireplace and wishes that damned drunk dead. Anyone would have taken better care of these poor children. They are no more than pigs led to slaughter for him.

- 4 -

Finally one evening my uncle gets a scary-looking sharp metal stick from the butcher and heads off to the Victors' Village in spite of my aunt Nola's pleads and piteous wailing.

"Have you gone mad, Rote? He will injure you for life... Haven't we had enough of that with our Grita and our boy?"

I do not wait for them to stop quarrelling. I slip away through the back yard and run as fast as I can. Run all the way through the market place, up the hill, and past the Meadow. Looking over my shoulder and diving into the thickets so that my uncle won't see me on his way.

I have no idea why I am doing this. Yet, that big stick and my uncle's heavy fists scare me so much that I feel somehow obliged to warn Haymitch. I owe that to him after he stepped out for me at the reaping. Even though he is a victor and all that, he might not be prepared for a punch in the face with a sharp metal stick. He might even be drunkenly dozing off somewhere in his garden, and my uncle would then hit him right on the head like that guy did to my cousin.

It is already somewhat dark when I get there, and the two rows of silent houses with blind windows make me shudder - I still remember the story about the haunted place. Haymitch's house is huge with wooden window panes and wild bushes covering the porch the size of the Justice Building's front entrance. Haymitch is nowhere in sight. I have to bang on the doorbvery quietly at first, and with no response, louder and louder. I have to run around and bang on the windows as well and even shout because although I see the light behind the dirty curtains, no one comes out.

I finally give up and decide that if my screaming and thudding did not bring Haymitch outside, then surely my uncle will not have any luck either. I kick the door one more time and turn around to leave when it suddenly opens, and I see Haymitch clearly unhappy to be disturbed.

The smell from the dark passage behind his back is overwhelming. I have never smelt anything even close to this. Not even when I accidentally broke a rotten egg. I gasp, cough and involuntarily close my nose.

"What's all this noise about?" asks he. "Who the heck are you, and what are you doing here?"

'My name is Lia, sir," I haste to explain, "My uncle is Rote Rosany, and he is coming to you right now to beat you with a big metal stick."

"What the...?" and then he frowns as if remembering. "Oh yeah, right... So, what do you need? Decided to save your uncle the trouble and get at me first?"

I do not quite understand what he means and there is no time for explanation. As I look back, I see my uncle entering the village gates.

I am of course afraid of Haymitch, but my uncle frightens me far more.

"Please, sir," I whisper urgently. "I only came to warn you. Don't let him know I've been here! He is sure to beat the crap out of me."

I duck into the bushes under the porch and tremulously wait as my uncle approaches. The bushes smell terribly as if someone urinated or vomited in them, and knowing Haymitch, probably that is exactly why they are here for.

My uncle seems alarmed to see Haymitch out. Probably he was hoping to take him by surprise. He stops short and opens his mouth to say something, but Haymitch is first.

"Well, Rote, long time no see," he says lightly, almost pleasantly. "Nice evening, isn't it?"

"You bastard," my uncle fumes on. "How dare you when I... when all of them kids..."

He holds on his stick tighter and raises his fist.

"Rote," Haymitch's voice is still very calm and pleasant, but there is something very steely and cold in it."You've got to be kidding. Don't tell me you are going to use that on me because you won't stand a chance."

And even as he says that, my uncle rushes forward - I clasp on my mouth not to shout out. For a moment, they are one against another pushing and kicking, and then, somehow the stick is in Haymitch's hand, and my uncle staggers back and almost falls off the porch into my stinky bushes. He is breathless and very red in the face. He sits down on the steps and starts to cry. This is almost as scary to see as his previous rage.

"You bastard, " he keeps on repeating. "She was barely 18. Her last reaping... Couldn't you at least try?!"

Haymitch drops the stick at my uncle's feet. He looks very tired and old now. As if it were my uncle who just hit him hard in the chest and not the other way around.

"Believe me or not, I did try, Rote," he says quietly. "Yet one could go only so far. What more could I do - step into the arena instead of her? I wish that there was such an option."

My uncle flags, slowly gets up and stumbles on the gravel away to the main gates. He does not even look at the weapon at his feet. As he disappears off the hill, I carefully climb out. My dress is all dirty and smelly, and my legs and arms are scratched. Haymitch is still there gazing at where my uncle has recently sat. He takes no notice of me, but I feel it will be impolite to just leave. So I cough and then mumble.

"Erm, sir... I... I guess I'd go now? Have a good night."

"What? " he throws me a sharp look. "Are you still here?"

"Well, yes... " To tell the truth, I do not really want to leave. My uncle will again be mad at me, and I am already late for dinner.

I smile at Haymitch as brightly as I can and say as politely as I would to a school principal.

"It was very nice of you, sir, not to tell my uncle that I came here. I am very much obliged to you."

He watches me as if I were some strange bird speaking in a human voice, like those jabberjays they are talking about. I am embarrassed, so I blubber on.

"You have a pretty house. I think it's even bigger than our Mayor's. You must be very happy to have such a big house all to yourself"

Since I decide on being very polite, I do not mention that the house is also gloomy and stinks like a garbage can.

"Why don't you just get lost, girl?"

For some reason, my politeness seem to annoy him.

"I am Lia, sir," I remind. "And I also wanted to thank you, sir, for what you did... what you said for me at the reaping."

"What did I say you, weird one?" He seems to have no clue, or perhaps, he has already forgotten.

"My uncle wanted me to go instead of Grita," I say quietly. It is the first time I am talking with someone about my cousin since the day she died. "And you told him off... Then Ms. What-is-her-name from the Capitol read out some rule in her book, but you were the first to say..."

I feel my tears trickling down my cheeks, and I bend my head low so that he will not see them.

He just signs.

"This is too much for one damned evening. I need a drink."

He is about to get inside and close the door when I rush out after him and tug on his shirt.

"Mr... Mr. Abernathy, please... may I stay here, at your place?"

He looks at me as if not quite sure he has heard me right.

"Please," As I say this, I grow more and more confident because it seems not such a bad idea after all. I'd be better off anywhere than at my uncle's place. "I'd be cleaning your house and cooking for you. I can cook a nice omelet and even bake a lemon pie if there is lemon juice and some flour. Please... your house is so large, and I will be so quiet, you will never even guess I am here."

He wants to say something, but I shake my head, close my eyes, and patter on.

"I am not loud at all, not like other kids. I don't play loud games or anything. I just practice some dancing, but I don't jump and I don't need any music for this, so it's really nothing. And then I like painting, and I can paint your house, and..."

"Will you just shut up?" This time I cannot pretend I do not hear him.

He probably sees something in my face because he speaks softer now.

"Look, girl... Lia... Why don't you just go home? Whatever trouble you have with your uncle, it surely can't be that bad. Do I look like a baby sitter to you?"

That stops me in tracks. I step back and look straight at him.

"No, sir, and I am not a baby. Not after my first reaping," He frowns slightly as I say this. "It's just that... you somehow seem kind to me. I don't think you would ever want to beat a girl like me black and blue just because it is her and not your daughter that still lives, would you, sir?"

For a moment, he just stares at me, and then his glare hardens.

"I don't know," he answers curtly."Never had a daughter. Get away from here, will you?"

As I step back, he suddenly says.

"If you had any wits about you, you'd be staying away and hoping never to have to speak with me again. Not until you're in your twenties safe and sound, do you get that?"

That's when I get angry. I have been running that far to tell him about my uncle, and he just shoos me off without as much as a single nice word. Why is it so difficult for them adults to find at least a smile for me? What have I ever done wrong but trying to please everyone and be as quiet as a mouse?

"I don't care," I tell him. "I might not even stay alive until my next reaping. When my uncle is in a spell, he doesn't really watch where his fist goes, you know."

Haymitch Abernathy follows me off the steps. His fingers cup my chin and lift it, and as he does that I suddenly want to lean on him, even though he smells so strongly of liquor and sweat.

"Well, Lia, I have only one advice for you," he says. "Next time try to duck his blow. If you learn to be swift, that can come real handy once you get reaped... if you get reaped."

"Easier said than done," I sniff and quickly wipe off my face with the sleeve.

"Sorry, that's the best advice I can give," he releases me. "Now I really need to have a drink."

"Mr. Abernathy," I say gently.

"What else?"

"I'm sorry that my uncle called you bastard. You are not."

"Huh?" - he smirks. "He said I was not even worthy to be eating with the pigs, and she defended me so bravely. She said I was worthy to be eating with just any pig," Haymitch Abernathy mutters to himself and disappears behind the door.

I look around and seeing no pigs, I shrug my shoulders. Drunk people are plain weird sometimes.


	4. Chapter 4 Four years

- 1 -

Over the next few years I indeed learn a couple of useful things while being busy with the household (My aunt's migraine prevents her from raising a finger and yet miraculously does not interfere with her screaming at me should I leave the oven on or the meat overcooked) and helping Rote around (You'd think after so much time he would learn at least to button up his shirt with his remaining fingers. Fat chance!).

How to duck my uncle's blow - I come to be talented at ducking and generally making myself invisible. This is a hard-won skill, and it costs me a broken nose not to mention occasionally dislocated joints, strained tendons, and bruises.

My uncle has changed after Grita's death. Earlier he just gave me half-hearted slaps whenever in a bad mood but now it is more like dark rage boiling inside him and spilling out each time his eye falls on me. He can neither speak to nor look at me without snarling. I never know for sure what might trigger him, so I try to stay away as I would from a rabid animal.

Grita was his favorite. His little doll. Each year on the day of her death my uncle Rote locks himself in with Grita's photos, and no one is to disturb him - not even my aunt Nola. We tip-toe around the house and listen to him cursing or crying inside their master bedroom. I could even feel sorry for him if it were not for the thrashing that I get first thing he comes out next morning.

No matter how much it hurts, my aunt never takes me to the merchants' doctor. It is always the apothecary, and since lately, I am usually sent to Katniss's mom since she is the apothecary in the Seam. I am not to tell her how I have got my wounds. Not that she asks any questions. Probably takes her guess about our family relations on the clues she sees on my face.

A quiet fair woman she is, so unlike her daughter. Her hands are warm and soft, and her voice is gentle. As Mrs. Everdeen stitches my cuts, I usually close my eyes and savor her care pretending she is my mom, and little Prim who plays with the herbs nearby is my sister. When Mrs. Everdeen sees me doing this, she always says, "I promise it's not going to hurt much". She doesn't know this is not about pain.

For my nose, my aunt did not take me anywhere at all. I spent almost three weeks at home, and the nose gradually healed on its own although it is a bit misshapen now. If I run my finger along the nose bridge, I can feel a small bump.

How to get out of my room in the attic after dark and back in the morning is another important skill to have. The only way is to climb on the roof through the attic window, and slide down or up the downspout, since my aunt usually locks me up for the night.

She starts doing this when she notices me washing my underwear soon after I have my first period at fourteen. At the same time, she also gets a full storage of bitter herbal stuff from the apothecary and makes sure I take some each evening before dinner. Her elegant explanation is, "Making sure you ain't going to shame us one day and get yourself knocked up."

I think though the remedy serves yet another purpose of decreasing their expenses on feeding me. After swallowing the herbs, the inside of my mouth tastes like garbage for an hour or so. No way I could eat my dinner no matter how hungry I am.

And eat my dinner is an absolute must. One might think merchants eat well but in our case, my aunt makes sure our food is just enough and of very low quality. All good products go either to our customers, mostly Peacekeepers, or into my uncle's and Rote's plates. My aunt and me share the scraps. Rote occasionally gives me something off his plate when my uncle is not looking but even with his contributions, I am almost always hungry.

I manage to occasionally steal bits and pieces from my uncle's store but it is extremely difficult since he has taken to locking away everything edible and keeps fuming about the thieves. I have no doubt if he catches me hot on the trail, he is going to hand me in straight to the Peacekeepers just like he would do with any Seam kid.

I sometimes envy the Seam people. For all their misery, at least all family eats the same dish. Then, they have the Hob where I am not really welcome because I am a merchant kid - an outsider. I venture in once or twice but people look at me weirdly, all except the woman they call Greasy Sae. She stares me up, sighs for no reason at all, and pours me a bowl of her soup. For free. When I come for the second time, one of the Peacekeepers shoves me off and threatens to tell my uncle where his niece spends her free time.

On a more positive side, I think my aunt Nola might not be entirely wrong in her suspicions. I go on practicing my dancing whenever I have chance - both Capitol and local styles. Boys line up to be my dance partners at the ever so rare parties we have here at District 12 and make sure I do not leave by myself after school. No more pinching or hair pulling now. Although sometimes when one of them sticks his tongue too far into my mouth, I cannot help but wonder... maybe, hair pulling is more preferable after all.

I have my first kiss on the night preceding my second reaping. I am only thirteen, and the boy, Erwin, is already fifteen, so he seems to me very mature and self-confident. That is until our somewhat desperate wet munching on one another's lips, and him snuffling, and his hands getting very hot.

I go out with Erwin mostly because I am so scared. I am scared out of my wits. Because of Grita, who should not have been reaped, I feel like I am to be revenged on. I kiss the boy and hope that would make me feel safe. It does help for some time.

Until he wants to unbutton my dress, and when I try to wriggle out, he blurts out that he has taken fifteen tesserae, that he has never tried this out with a girl, and the day after tomorrow he might not have another chance. If he says all this to make me feel sorry for him, he is terribly wrong. If anything, I feel betrayed and strangely vulnerable. So, I smirk and say that there are girls out there even in the arena, so he can still try his luck, and then, he can kill her right after.

He slaps me across the face, and I spit blood. This almost does not hurt. I am used to my uncle's heavy hand. When the boy starts his "So sorry... I didn't mean to... Don't know what's wrong with me... Must be the reaping", I only smile back.

Erwin is not reaped this year though. He is reaped a year after. I hope he used that extra year and did manage to make it out with a girl. I really do. Even so, I feel guilty as if now I am to blame for two deaths - Grita's and Erwin's.

That is why when another boy takes me out to the Meadow in the evening and pulls up my dress a week after Erwin is dead, I do not refuse him. They talk about pain but all I feel is slight discomfort and burning down there, and I desperately want to pee all the time he moves in me.

After I am back home though, I sit awake all through the night in my attic room. I cannot believe I did this, and what for? I cannot believe I am still me. One part of me even wants to come down, wake my aunt and cry on her lap even though she would probably just swear and stuff in me another portion of her herbs.

I end up crawling into Rote's bed and manage to fall asleep whimpering and gulping. The first thing he does when he wakes up early in the morning and finds me curled by his side is to yell and take away his blanket but at least he does not shove me out of his room. He never does.

I promise to myself that never ever again... but a few days later, one of my classmates sees me off after school, and we somehow end up at the back of the school barn. My second time is no better than the first. Yet, after we break up in a month or so, it seems to be no other choice but to make it out with a boy from the Seam. And then, there is another boy...

As time goes on, I find that I prefer dark grey-eyed guys from the Seam to fair-haired merchant boys. They are not so high brow and they never sneer at me after we fall apart. That is why at some point I hook up with Gale; although each time Gale pulls my dress off my shoulders, I keep looking out for Katniss with her hunting knife.

I think they might have a crush on one another. Otherwise, why would they disappear in the woods every now and then? Hunting? Well, I am not a hunter of course, but tell me one thing... Does it really take both people a whole day to shoot one skinny squirrel? I would guess no, otherwise Greasy Sae would have run out of her meat supplies for the soup. After two weeks of worrying that Katniss will find out about me and Gale, it simply becomes too much, and we quietly split up. No regrets from either side.

I do not even know how it happens, and why I cannot stop... Sometimes I think there must be something terribly wrong with me. I am barely fifteen but my dubious fame is spreading out fast like the choky smog from the Seam.

When I first hear my classmates tittering behind my back, I turn bright red and run out right in the middle of the lecture notwithstanding the teacher yelling at me. I cry in the dark and smelly washroom and do not get out until all students have left.

After a while though, I get used to this. I am okay with the fact that I will likely not have any girl friends at school, and I almost do not care what they all whisper about me keeping no boy longer than a week. When one of the teachers wrinkles her nose as if I stink and mutters something about nowadays teens being fast, I just give her a shrug and respond that people are all different. Some might be fast but others are absolutely retarded.

The only one who tries to defend me is Delly but somehow her plaintive, "Look, girls, Lia is not like that at all. I know her. She's so good and kind" stings more than their sniggering. That is why at Madge's birthday party I dance with Jero Freies who has been sweet on Delly. When I see the look in Delly's eyes which has more disbelief and apprehension than hurt, I know I have just lost it.

Peeta is often my only solace and the reason why the school does not become completely unbearable. We do not talk as much as we used to though. No time for that. Him toiling in the bakery right after school, me swamped by the household and store duties. Yet, it helps simply to have him there in the class. Knowing that his mom is no better than my uncle, and in some ways, he is even worse off than me because he loves her in spite of everything. He'd never raise his hand against her even though he can. He prefers to endure some of his fellow classmates' smirks "Hey, how does your mom feel today?" whenever he comes to class with a bruise.

Eventually though I quit stopping by Peeta's bakery. Peeta never mocks me behind my back, and he is such a goody-goody. That is the whole point of why I do not want to be friends with him anymore. Because I know my damned self only too well. If we go on chatting after school, I won't be able to help it but make a pass on him. Then, I will ruin everything. And I want at least one person in the district to remember me as something else but an easy-going never-to-refuse girl.

At first, Peeta acts as if nothing is happening, and we are still the same old friends even though all that I say now is "Hi, how are you?". Then, he gets the clue but still smiles at me sweetly and a bit sadly at the same time, and always allows me to copy his answers on the quizzes. Sometimes when I am late for the class and run in all flustered - with a dark spot showing somewhere on my neck - and kids upfront start sniggering, Peeta is the only one not laughing. The only one watching me as if he understands something about me that I myself do not even know. As if he guesses an answer to the question I keep asking myself.

Why do I keep doing this? What do I want after all these years? As I am fourteen, and fifteen, and sixteen? Oh, it is so simple, and yet so immensely complex and unattainable. I want for someone to need me.

I want to be safe so badly that during the week that precedes the reaping I am ready to make it out with just anyone - anyone no matter how ugly or old. Only not to stay alone. Not to think of Grita's crusty lips and blood dripping from her fair ringlets, or Erwin's shaking hands, or Daffo's slit throat, or any other of these familiar faces. Not to think that this year, it is going to be me - for sure!

Once I have someone holding me, it is not so bad. I almost believe it is going to be fine. I almost feel needed. That is why deep inside me I know I cannot quit. I cannot help but date these boys. Watching them kiss me with their eyes closed tightly. Never closing my eyes. Drinking in their hunger and need. The more of them want me the better. One boyfriend is not enough. He might die in the Games like Erwin, or be buried in the mines like Mr. Everdeen, or see me - like they all do - for what I am - a freak! - and leave me for a girl like Delly or Katniss.

- 2 -

I do not see much of Haymitch Abernathy these years, and each time I meet him near the Hob, he looks more and more scruffy, paunchy and grey-haired. Strange as it might seem sometimes I almost envy him. I wish I could do the same. Not to care about what people say or think about me and send anyone who bothers me straight to the devil. Most importantly, to be able to punch my uncle in the face instead of ducking.

I do not try to talk to Haymitch on the street but for a few months after my first reaping I keep on visiting his place. Sometimes I even bring something with me and leave at his porch. It is not much but for a 12-year old me it seems like a decent deal. A piece of a stale lemon pie or a funny drawing made at school. First time Haymitch has a bad hangover and looks as if he might puke all over me and my pie. After that, he does not even bother to open the door anymore, and I know better than to knock.

I sit on his porch having no idea whatsoever why I am even doing this. It is not like he is even remotely friendly or sympathetic towards me. It is just that... He is the only one in the district who has noticed that what my uncle does is wrong. Other adults - teachers at school, the store customers, even the Mayor and Peeta's father - pretend they do not see or know. They either look away or keep smiling at me and telling me to be a good girl.

Then, there is something else. Nobody ever goes that way but me and the grounds-keeper. Even on holidays. Does Haymitch have no family or friends at all? Somehow I do not think anymore that large house of his is such a blast.

By the time I am fourteen, I quit coming to the Victors' Village though. As my memories of my first reaping grow dim, I go on dating my boys, sweating at the reapings, having wild dreams, and dancing in the Meadow when nobody is around. A simple girl with simple wishes. All that till the 74th Hunger Games...


	5. Chapter 5 A Big-Big Day & Its Aftermath

**- 1 -**

It does not matter whether you are twelve or sixteen. Tesserae or not, you never get used to this sinking feeling and ringing in your ears as Miss Trinket plunges her manicured hand deep into the glass bowl, and the crowd gets so still you can hear the rustling of the paper slips. Later, friends and classmates will hold each other's hands, cry, or heave a sigh of relief (depending on who ended up on the stage) but at this very moment everyone is by themselves. Alone among the crowd. Each time is like your very first one while you are waiting for your name to be called and wring your hands - wring your whole heart - and bite on your lip.

And each time is like your very last one when someone else's name finally bell-rings in the air and you slowly and painfully realize that you have just won one more year of your life in this unequal fight with your fate. Fate, or should I say the Capitol?

Like everyone else in the crowd, I hear Katniss's little sister's name being twittered in Ms. Trinket's cheerful high-pitched voice. Like everyone else, I have very mixed feelings. Pure happiness - it's not me this time! Not me! - and poignant sadness since it is very obvious that this tiny Prim is doomed from the start.

Like everyone else, I gasp when Katniss volunteers, but somewhere deep inside I am not really surprised. This is Katniss I have gone to classes with for many years. Would she have any choice? Her mom would have gone completely nuts watching Prim dying, and for Katniss herself, it would have probably been too painful even to think of, save alone seeing on the live screen.

I have never been too keen on Katniss, and now she is the one to die. So pale, tight-lipped and straight on that stage that I want to slap Effie Trinket who cheers out for applause as if this is all the largest fun fair you could ever imagine.

When everyone holds out three fingers, I see Katniss's lips quivering ever so slightly, and suddenly she is no longer arrogant or brisk. No devil-may-care hunter. She is only my classmate whom I am never going to see again. I want to rush upfront and do something... I don't know... maybe, shield her so that no one could see Katniss Everdeen, the bravest girl in our school, trying to hold back her tears.

I am spared any risky actions since at this very moment Haymitch Abernathy begins his longest speech ever during all the previous Games taken together.

Then, I hear Effie chanting out Peeta's name, and - oh no! oh no! At first, I think I might have misheard still busy looking at Katniss but then, I see him slowly walking down the aisle.

I cannot help but make a move towards Peeta, and one of the Peacekeepers shoves me back. This is so much worse than with Katniss. Our gentle and friendly Peeta. All these long and hot summer evenings we played together at the bakery entrance. Free buns. Him smiling at me. Me always copying his homework. One of the few boys I have not gone into the school barn with. Perhaps, I should have asked him to. It was worth trying.

Delly starts crying and grips my hand. But I have no sympathy for her or Gale who now holds wailing Prim.

"Oh, for damn sake, why didn't Gale volunteer? He is older, he could protect her in the arena or something, and Peeta would have been safe," I whisper bitterly and bite on my knuckles, and then it hits me. He just can't go! It is as simple as that. Who is going to feed their families - Gale's and Katniss's - when both get killed?

I cannot stay still alongside Delly. I feel a desperate urge to do something. Anything, only not to be here and watch Peeta shaking hands with Katniss. Watch Effie Trinket who pays more attention to her wig damaged by Haymitch Abernathy's awkward hug than to the two kids in front of her.

Haymitch... My uncle's bitter voice rings in my ears, "If only we had a decent victor, not this drunk... " Wait... but it was him who spoke for me at my first reaping. He has actually even spoken on Katniss's behalf right now. Maybe, it is not all the same for him then? Maybe, he cares... in his own way.

I have an idea. It is only a snowball's chance but it is all I can come up with. I start to slowly move in the direction of where they have carried Abernathy's stretcher. Now that the tributes have been selected, the Peacekeepers do not prevent me from stepping out of the circle, especially since I hold a handkerchief by my mouth and pretend to be violently sick.

- 2 -

I rush up the steps of my uncle's store. The front door is locked, and I know I will not find anyone inside. My uncle stubbornly keeps the store closed on the day of each reaping after Grita's death. I guess this is his way of quiet protest. I scramble around until I find the dusty bottle of old Capitol whiskey that my uncle keeps more for himself than for his customers. I wrap it in my sweater. Then, as an afterthought, I enter the kitchen and get some pills my aunt uses for her headaches.

As I venture into the door at the back of the Justice Building where I've seen them bringing Haymitch's stretcher and tiptoe along the corridor, I hear voices upstairs where all the Peacekeepers and tributes are now. Someone is crying. I think I recognize Madge Undersee's voice. It is good that there are so many people around. Relatives, friends, some cameramen. No one pays much attention to me. Yet, even if someone asks me what I am doing here, I have my answer ready. "I'm Peeta's friend. I came for him." It will be the truth as well.

A nurse is coming out of one of the rooms, and as soon as she walks round the corner, I hurry in.

Haymitch Abernathy is sitting on the chair looking quite shaken and surly as usual. Holding an ice pack against his head. He does not even look at me at first - probably, takes me for another nurse or apothecary apprentice - but as I carefully place my bottle onto his lap, his eyes widen.

"Real whiskey, not just home-made liquor? Girl, where have you been hiding before? Oh well, it's still like an hour until the train takes off. Just enough to pass the time pleasantly."

"Maybe, you'd better start with this and save whiskey for later?"

I get the pills out of my pocket, but he just washes them down with whiskey.

I am a bit worried.

"Are you sure it won't hurt? It's medicine after all. Not to be mixed with alcohol."

"After Ripper's stuff? No way anything can hurt," he squints at me. "Wait, I know you."

I do not explain where and how often we have met, so I simply say.

"I am your new tributes' classmate."

And then, I pause and bite on my nails. I do not know where to begin. Somehow it is very important for me that... it is different for District 12 this time. I know, of course, it is impossible for them to survive. But at least let them die having some hope. Not like Grita... Hit with a stone while craving for water.

Haymitch interprets my hesitation in his own strange way.

"So, you came to bribe me with this whiskey? For me to do what? Drug your classmates before they get to the arena? For them to die in peace and no pain?"

I shake my head. I suddenly forget all the words I have been hoping to plead with him in order to make him... indeed... do what? Instead, I just say.

"I came to wish you all guys luck... There is no point for me to try getting past all the relatives, and anyway, I am not even that close with Peeta since lately."

As he looks at me drunkenly-quizzically, I have this strange-strange feeling. I am suddenly sorry. It is not only Peeta I am thinking of. In two or three weeks, Haymitch Abernathy will step off the train alone as usual. Our life at District 12 will go on until the next reaping. Only without Katniss and Peeta. Without that boy who kissed me first and whose name I suddenly cannot remember right now. Without Grita and many-many others. Two more years, and - I can hardly believe this - it might be over even for me! Not for Haymitch though.

So, I surprise myself. On a whim, I bend over and hug him. He smells of stale liquor and sweat, and looks somewhat... disconcerted, weary, or just dead drunk?

I do not have time to reflect on that because at this very moment, the Head Peacekeeper enters the room, and stops in tracks at the sight of me.

"Time for your train, Abernathy," he says softly and gives me a queer look as I brush past him outside.

The last thing I hear is Haymitch hiccupping and mumbling.

"Whoa, life of a mentor is sweet indeed. Free whiskey and girls all over the place. Don't look so jealous, Cray, here, take a swig."

- 3 -

The week before the Games start is, I think, the worst for us, people in the district who are waiting, and biting on their nails, and taking bets - yes, some are like that. This week of waiting is the worst for the relatives who, I am sure, cannot get a decent night sleep without seeing their beloved ones bleeding and dying in their dreams. I remember, my uncle Rote was pacing his bedroom every night after Grita had left, and my aunt Nola had hysterical fits every now and then, so I had to treat her with cold water and expensive sleeping pills.

Everyone changes during these days. People are more polite and caring about one another. It is as if we forget about our personal little quarrels and get together to be there for our tributes. Everyone tries to make up for little Prim and her mum. Even my aunt collects some groceries into the basket and asks me to bring these to Mrs. Everdeen. My uncle is a different matter, of course. I try not to show up when he is around. I am the remembrance about Grita.

I do the housework, help Rote with the customers at the store, and date Jero Freies rather half-heartedly. I even make peace with Delly. After Peeta's departure, she does not care about any other guy anymore, and I have to listen to her long and tearful list of the things she should have told Peeta, but did not.

When I get tired of her, I point to the screen and remark that Peeta and Katniss look quite contented with one another during the training sessions, and anyway, it does not matter since we are not likely to see them again.

Instead of getting angry or teary, this strange Delly only pats my shoulder and says, "I know you love him too. Let's just hope for the best, okay? If we give up, what's there to remain?"

You just can't win with some people.

"Love him too," I whisper to myself in my attic room. What does love mean though? Whatever I feel now, it was much worse that year when Erwin was selected a tribute. Still though this guilt gnaws on me. I cannot explain this, but it is like all these tributes die in order for me to go on living in a relative safety.

- 4 -

Two or three days after the tributes have left, I am slowly walking back from the Meadow when Peacekeeper Cray crosses my way and greets me.

"Well, ain't that Lia? How do you do, pretty one?"

I am somewhat abashed that he knows my name, and even more so because he takes trouble to greet me. Then, he casually places his hand on my shoulder and asks me what plans I have for tonight and for my weekends in general. I am well-familiar with the rumors, and even if I were not, the way he talks and stares at me is just like the looks that I get from the boys who follow me into the school barn.

"Oh, I am so busy with all the homework and household, sir," I answer lightly. "You know my aunt has not been feeling well these days."

"Still, maybe, you can find half an hour or so,"he presses on. "A girl like you probably needs some dresses as pretty as herself. I could help you with that."

"Oh, I am okay, thank you, but I am not much for dressing up," I am trying to be nice because he is an adult and the Head Peacekeeper, and you never know, I might as well take care.

"You do like dancing though," he says, and now he basically embraces me, and his thumb is playing with my bra strip. "Well, what about listening to some good music at my place? Drinking some wine, maybe? Have you ever tried wine from the Capitol?"

I do not ask how he found out about my dancing but make a mental point that it might not be safe to go to the Meadow in the dark anymore. I try to duck, but it is not that easy since by now he is so close. His breath reeks of liquor not unlike Haymitch's, but for some reason, it seems much more disgusting. No people in sight on the street. He could have raped me right here for all they care.

"I am not that kind," I say.

"Really? Somehow I got an impression you were not against hanging out with all kinds of boys, as well as with older men, am I right?"

"You are mistaken, really..."

He kisses me, full on the lips, and his tongue slides into my mouth. I have an urge to bite on it but of course I do nothing of the kind. I just whimper ever so quietly and try to wriggle out. He lets go of me but no sooner than he gets a good opportunity to grope my breast, and smirks:

"Well, ain't you fussy? Am I worse off than Haymitch?" He finally releases me but not until he strongly pinches my behind. "Let me know if you change your mind, girlie. Don't waste your precious time on youngsters and old drunks who cannot give you full credit."

"I certainly will, sir... I mean I won't... I do appreciate your advice," I mumble and smile tremulously, although I'd rather give him a kick in the ass

On my way home, I think that maybe that is exactly what I like about Haymitch Abernathy. He seems to be one of the few men in this district who have never tried to hurt or date me.


End file.
